Father of Lies
by Hermione Prime
Summary: Tom Riddle leads a double life, famous politician by day and Lord Voldemort by night. Harry Potter is about to disrupt his life by convincing the world that he is Tom's mistake of a son, the by-product of one night the young Dark Lord was drunk and sixteen. Thus follows one of the biggest scandals of all time. Oh, Harry is going to enjoy messing things up for Riddle. AU.
1. Chapter 1

_A/N: Started a new pet project. Gotta finish Black Coat, I know, but this will probably help me with the creative juices. :D And who knows? It might be enjoyable. Just bear with me for a while._

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><p><span>Chapter One<span>

"Sir, there is a boy waiting outside who wants to see you."

Tom Riddle barely looked up from his paperwork. Interruptions, interruptions. He took them all in stride with a charming smile, every day, every week, and every year.

It was tedious but necessary. But it paid off.

The charismatic politicians were the favourite ones, especially the young ones who brought in refreshing new ideas. If there was anything Tom had, it was new ideas.

And in his line of work, a pretty face was a bonus.

Still … just because he had to be at his most courteous in front of the cameras did not mean he had the patience to deal with children who wanted his autograph.

His secretary was still standing there, waiting for his response.

Tom itched to seize his wand and curse him. It had been a long day, the damned paperwork was getting on his nerves, and he had no intention of dealing with overly enthusiastic fans. If his secretary couldn't even get rid of a child, Tom had no idea why the man even bothered to look for a job.

"Does he have an appointment?"

"No –"

"Then I do not want to see him," Tom said shortly. "Tell him I'm busy."

"But Mister Riddle –"

"Shut the door on your way out."

"I'm not sure dismissing the boy would be a good idea –"

If he was the type to lose his composure, Tom would have slammed the useless man against the wall with a wand pressed at his throat.

None of his followers ever dared to contradict him.

"It's just that, sir, the boy claims to be related to you," his secretary explained hastily, seeming to catch onto his unravelling tolerance.

… That was a surprise.

It certainly didn't happen every day.

Doubtless, the boy was lying, but …

"Distantly?"

"No, sir."

Tom's eyebrows went up. "Ah, a close relative then. And he has never introduced himself until now. How close, exactly?"

His secretary looked hesitant. "Er, he says he is your son."

At first, Tom thought he had misheard. He had no son. He'd never even had a long term girlfriend let alone a blasted child! There was no time for an emotion as pathetic as love when he had followers to lead and a world to take by storm.

This was ridiculous.

He laughed softly. "Tell him to pull a prank on someone else."

"Sir …" His secretary looked uncomfortable in his own skin. "Admittedly, he does look like you. I mean, you both have dark hair. I suppose it could be a coincidence, but if you stood side by side …"

Riddle suppressed a sigh.

"Let in him then."

The sooner he got this over and done with, the better. Perhaps a distraction would allow his mind to focus better.

Tom closed his eyes and rubbed at his temples. Living two lives meant all work and no sleep. Of course there had to be sacrifices, but sometimes, he entertained the thought of a long break. Unfortunately, rest was the one thing he could not afford.

...

It seemed to Harry as though hours had passed, even though he knew it had only been mere minutes, when the secretary stepped out of Voldemort's office. Tom Riddle's office.

His heart was thumping so wildly in his chest that he thought anyone within a two hundred metre radius would hear it.

He was about to walk, willingly no less, right into the lair of the Dark Lord, and declare himself as Riddle's non-existent son.

Talk about being suicidal. God, he would probably have a higher chance of survival if he signed his own death warrant.

For the first time in his life, Harry wondered if he should follow Dumbledore's instructions. This was either going to be the world's most genius plan, or it was going to be a failure from the start. He wanted to groan.

This was not how he wanted to die, in another time, pretending to be Voldemort's son while trying to carve out a different future so that a war and genocide never happened.

It was so damned complicated.  
>He couldn't even get his own mind around it.<p>

And somehow, according to Dumbledore, his first mission was to convince the world he was the spawn of the devil.

"Mister Riddle is ready for you," the secretary said, offering him a smile.

Harry barely managed to return it.

He straightened his shoulders and yanked up his Occlumency shields. They were fragile, nowhere as strong as Harry would have liked, and he was sure his mind would not be able to keep Riddle out if he tried to get in. Still, it was better than nothing.

He turned on his heels and marched into the room before he could change his mind.

Riddle was sitting behind a mahogany desk, hands folded, in pristine robes, looking just as handsome as his diary self if slightly older. He was nothing like Voldemort, as least in looks. Harry couldn't help but wonder how many Horcruxes he had, or if he hadn't even split his soul yet.

The eyes followed Harry as he approached, inspecting him. They were so _blue_. Huh. Not red yet.

Harry felt like he was going to be sick, and bile rose up his throat, but he choked out the word anyway, "Father."

That was the best he could do, and even that was too much. Saying 'dad' was impossible.

Riddle raised his eyebrows.

"I-I've been looking forward to seeing you."

The eyebrows rose higher.

Harry wasn't sure if it was a good thing or a bad thing. Probably the latter. He had the honour of convincing the man himself that he was his bastard son. How wonderful.

"Er –"

"You realise you look sixteen," Riddle said flatly.

He never realised how talented the young Dark Lord was at guessing ages. Full marks.

"I-I'm fourteen, actually."

That was a lie.

"Are you?" came the silken response. "You know what that insinuates, don't you? I am only thirty. How can it be that I have a fourteen year old son that I have never heard of before, let alone seen?"

Harry knew very well what it insinuated. The thought of a young, sixteen-year-old Dark Lord doing _that _was enough to make him gag.

"I was going to ask you that, Riddle," Harry said. He immediately realised his mistake.

"Riddle?" the devil in front of him inquired sweetly. "Not 'father' anymore?"

"Probably not appropriate to call you that until you claim me," Harry muttered, hoping to cover up his slipup. "I was hoping you would know who she is."

"She?"

"My mother," Harry said. "The girl you don't even have the courtesy to remember."

There, hopefully that sounded like a boy who was bitter towards his father rather than the pure loathing he truly felt. He bit back a laugh at the revolted expression on Riddle's face.

"Pardon me?" Riddle looked like he had swallowed something nauseating. He took a sip of water from a glass.

"I know I'm a mistake," Harry said. "But I am your mistake."

After a moment of silence, Riddle seemed to regain his composure. "You are not my mistake," he said. "I do not _make_ mistakes."

"So it wasn't after a night of partying in the Slytherin dorm?" Harry asked, pulling an innocent expression. "It wasn't when you were drunk on alcohol? You say I am not a mistake. Then why did you leave me?"

The young Dark Lord looked furious.  
><em>"You are not mine. And I do not party or get drunk."<em>

"You are in denial."

Harry watched his eyes blaze. For the first time, Riddle looked at a loss for words. He opened his mouth several times, all the while glaring at Harry. His disgust was blatant.

"Tell me, is this a dare? Do you think it is _funny_ to brag about this with your friends?" Riddle came across no less deadly than a viper prepared to strike. "If you continue to dally in my office, your parents will have a lawsuit on their hands."

Harry smirked. "You're going to sue yourself?"

"You –"

"You have to take responsibility for your mistakes when you were sixteen and young and foolish. And drunk." Harry took a deep breath. He was sure he would pay for this later but everything depended on this. "I want to live with you."

_"Pardon me?"_

"I want to live with you."

He almost winced. God, what was he saying? He didn't want to live with Tom Bloody Riddle! But he had to do this. Take one for the team. This was for the Greater Good.

"You are wasting my time," came the cold reply. "Can you imagine the speculation if a teenager suddenly moves in with me? They may think –"

"Think what? That I'm your fourteen-year-old son? They'd be right."

"You are not living with me."

"You are breaking my heart," Harry said bitingly.

"I have more important things to worry about."

"You are such a great father."

"I don't expect to win Father of the Year award and neither do I want to."

"Do you want to win the Youngest Politician to Get a Girl Pregnant award?"

Riddle's head snapped towards him so fast that Harry thought he would get whiplash. He swore the temperature in the room suddenly dropped by a few degrees.

"You have quite the quick tongue … but I am a busy man."

"Too busy for me?"

If looks could kill, Harry knew he would have been slaughtered right on the spot. He was doing this for Dumbledore, he told himself.

"Charles! Show him the way out."

The secretary came inside, flustered. He'd obviously heard everything. Before Charles could reach him, Harry strode forward, seized a paperweight from Riddle's desk, pitched his arm back and threw it as hard as he could at Riddle.

Riddle's eyes widened, and he only just deflected it.

The paperweight was sent skittering to the floor.

"I-I'm sorry, sir," Charles said. "Harry – it's Harry, right? – why don't you come with me?"

Harry went without giving Riddle a second glance.

He thought it went rather well considering everything.

Riddle might not accept him, but this wasn't the end of this.

If Riddle was a nicer person, or if he hadn't murdered his parents, Harry might have found a bit of sympathy for him for what was to come. But as if was, he felt amused in spite of everything. The press was going to have a field day with this.

...

As soon as the dratted teen left, Tom closed his eyes and inhaled. If he was a lesser man, he might have buried his head in his arms.

He was certain the boy wasn't his, but he could only imagine the mess if word got out. The paparazzi, the media, his political opposition … And his Death Eaters.

His followers were easy to control and they followed him because he was powerful. It would be _inconvenient_ if they were to suddenly doubt his judgement and power. If they learned that their lord had a child at _sixteen_ – regardless of whether it was true or not – the seed of doubt would be planted.

Tom picked up his quill again, ignoring the headache.

The boy was probably nothing.

He had work to do.

* * *

><p><em>Dun dun dun :P The idea of Riddle having Harry at sixteen is what? Disturbing? Funny? Awkward? Tell me.<em>


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter Two

"Glad we could meet up," the woman chirped, taking his hand and shaking it fervently. "How's your day? Mine's been good, very good."

Harry glanced at her. His jaws dropped. He had the oddest sense of déjà vu. Her blond curls ran as far as her chin before stopping. There was red lipstick smeared across her lips, bringing out her sharp chin and gleaming eyes.

If he closed his eyes, it was all too easy to imagine Rita Skeeter sitting opposite him.

"How should I address you, Mister …?"

His past experiences taught him to be wary around journalists, but this time round, he was primed and ready to go.

They were like sharks in the water with an eye out for blood. This was going to be so simple. All Harry had to do was nick Riddle in the side and spill some blood. And the sharks would swarm and feed.

The journalists wanted dirt on Riddle, so he would give them plenty of it.

"Harry Riddle – but I'd prefer it if you just called me Harry."

The woman inhaled dramatically. "Ooh, Riddle, is it? Is that a coincidence? Or is there something more than meets the eye?"

Harry took a sip of his tea.

"Is there a secret shifting beneath your skin? What mysteries lurk in your mind?" She leaned across the table and took his wrist.

He grinned. "Actually, that's what I was hoping to tell you."

"Oh yes?"

From the corner of his eye, Harry spotted a Quick Quotes Quill poised to write. He was suddenly hit by an urge to laugh. Oh, this was brilliant. Tom was about to find all the tables turning.

"Tom Riddle is my father."

There was a sudden flurry of action as the quill moved so fast across the parchment that it became a blur. Harry pretended to be oblivious.

As it moved down the page, he glimpsed the word 'scandalous' and 'devastated'.

It took him no small amount of effort to school his face into a somewhat neutral expression.

"He … hasn't claimed you yet?"

Lips twitching, Harry treated her to his best 'devastated' face. "I guess he isn't so taken with his bastard son. I'm a mistake."

"You poor, poor thing."

Despite her sympathetic words, Harry could pick out the sheer delight in her voice. Like a cat greeted with a plate of canaries. He couldn't help but be amused.

"I never asked to be his son."

"I know, dear."

"He asked his secretary to throw me out of his office."

"Who?"

"My _father_."

The woman practically choked on her own excitement.

Much to Harry's glee, he could now make out the quill writing down 'brutal', 'denial' and 'cold-hearted, cutthroat, bastard of a father'. What a nice pun. He never realised how useful Quick Quotes Quills could be.

Perhaps he should get one of his own.

Riddle was about to be hailed with a nasty surprise when the Daily Prophet came out.

"What exactly did he say to you when you confessed?"

"I believe it was 'I have more important things to worry about'."

"How … cruel."

Harry looked down at his hands. "He's probably a very busy man."

The quill had started a new paragraph: 'The poor child divides his time between choking out the words, avoiding my eyes, and trying to find an explanation for his father ruthlessly abandoning him. It is hard to decide which is worse: our beloved politician heartthrob becoming a baby daddy at sixteen or still refusing to look after his son fourteen years later.'

Seeing Voldemort and 'baby daddy' in the same sentence was the last straw. It was impossible to control his laughter this time.

Harry spluttered helplessly into his cup of tea.

Yes, Riddle was about to get a very, very nasty surprise. He didn't envy Riddle's publicist one bit.

The journalist kept throwing questions at him, determined to get all the juicy details – and Harry was more than willing to answer.

Two hours later, he stood 'shakily' to take her hand. "Thank you so much for listening."

"Aw, you know I'm here for you, don't you?" the woman said. "Once we get this out there, I can guarantee you that he'll be begging to take you in by the end of the week. Or he risks the public turning against him."

Harry hid a smirk.

"My name is Ruth Skeeter, by the way."

He should have known.

-0O0-

Tom was nursing a cup of coffee as he settled into his chair when he was graced with his secretary's inopportune timing.

The moment he caught sight of the Daily Prophet's headline – **Tom Riddle: Pretty Politician or Problem Papa?** – he was coughing up coffee and frantically dabbing at his lips with a handkerchief. He looked down and saw that the cup was smashed to china shards on the floor.

"I'll clean it up, sir," Charles muttered.

It took him longer than usual to regain his composure.

Tom reached across and seized his secretary by the wrist. "What is the meaning of this?"

It was thanks to his immense self-control that he managed to keep the fury out of his voice, at least enough so that Charles didn't immediately drop to the floor in a dead faint.

"Uh, yes, I, um, I think you should give it a read, sir," the man fumbled. "I-I'll owl your publicist straightaway to see if we can somehow … limit the damage."

Tom felt anger coursing through his veins.

That brat from yesterday had certainly acted fast.

His wand practically throbbed with heat in his sleeve. He didn't know if he could restrain himself from cursing the boy if he dared to show his face again – which, Tom suspected, he would do soon enough.

Cursing him wouldn't help matters.

Perhaps he could get one of his Death Eaters to do something …

But no, that would be too obvious.

_'__Our beloved politician, who has earned the title 'heartthrob' and hundreds of young witches' devotion, has been revealed to have engaged in a drunken affair with an unnamed lady at sixteen. His illegitimate son, Harry Riddle, is fourteen this year.'_

Tom hissed under his breath.

He skimmed down the page as words jumped out at him: 'in deep denial', 'rich but rash', '_playboy_'?! 'irresponsible', 'turning a cold shoulder to the son he seems an unworthy mistake'.

With a flick of his wand, the newspaper was on fire.

His reputation was at stake here. A son could ruin everything. Alarm bells were ringing in his head. If he got his hands on Harry _Riddle_, he was going to make that dratted child regret everything. This was abysmal.

His secretary stood in the corner, shaking like a leaf.

"It's going to take an army to tidy up this mess," Tom said. "Where are my lawyers?"

"A-are you going to sue the Daily Prophet, sir?"

"No, I'm going to kiss them," he snarled.

"I could owl them too, sir … if you are adamant."

Tom pinned him with a glare. "Are you questioning me?"

"No, of course not!" the man squeaked. "It's just that your son –"

_"__He is not my son."_

"My apologies, sir. The _boy_ has already been taken to have his blood tested. The results have come back positive. He is, at least on paper, proven to be – er – your … you know."

Those tests could be fooled. It would take an impressive amount of magic and skill, but there were plenty of wizards he knew who could pull it off. The child was not his. It was simply not possible.

"The Daily Prophet has thousands of readers. It's a big company, sir. Perhaps it's not the best idea to engage them at court."

Tom was no fool.

They would lose the case.

It wasn't worth it.

He had, in short, been cornered by a mere child with wild claims.

There were a thousand ways in which he planned to make Harry pay.

Unbelievable.

This was unbelievable.

There was going to be a voting in a few months' time for the new Minister of Magic. Tom had had high hopes. It was ridiculous how easily said hopes were dashed. He felt like murdering someone right on the spot.

Regrettably only his secretary was in the room, and he needed him.

"Sir?" his secretary ventured.

"Yes?"

"There are a crowd of paparazzi outside this building, waiting for you to make an appearance," Charles said. "I didn't want to bother you with it, but they are getting impatient. Would you like me to have a word with them?"

He could feel a headache coming on.

Tom stood up, smoothed down his suit and turned on his heels. "No need," he said. "I'll deal with them myself. Clean up the coffee. And clear my schedule for the week."

"But sir –"

"Do it."

He disappeared through the door.

...

Harry's day was going great. Ruth Skeeter had approached him that morning with buttered buns and an expensive suit and a suggestion that they visit Tom Riddle's work building.

When they got there, Harry had been greeted with the delicious sight of no less than a hundred reporters, journalists, paparazzi and curious civilians, all anticipating the moment their favourite politician stepped outside to bombard him with questions.

By the looks of it, they had been waiting for ages in the heat.

So Harry had assumed that it was only polite for him to declare himself and quench their thirst for information. And if it happened to reduce Riddle's well-protected reputation to a pitiful ball of shrivelled oxygen, well, that couldn't possibly be his fault.

"Harry – may I call you Harry? – is it true that your father denied your existence even after you confronted him about it?" were only one of the few politer ones barked out at him.

Some of the ruder ones – rude for Riddle and entertaining for him – consisted of 'Don't you think that Tom Riddle's mistreatment of you shows, at best, his lack of responsibility and at worst, a complete animalistic disregard for the wellbeing of other fellow humans?'

Harry was willing to bet that particular reporter had been sent by Riddle's rival politicians.

"I don't think I'm the best judge of my father, since I don't know him all that well," was his answer. Let them take it how they will.

Yes, it was perfectly fair to say that his day was starting out great.

That was, until Riddle decided to make an appearance.

That git had brushed open the doors with a calmness no one else could have possessed and a pretty smile for those who screamed his name. He stepped out into the sun in a three-piece suit and glistening shoes.

Harry was a bit irritated.

It was as if none of this unnerved him in the least.

Riddle held out a hand, as if he could physically stop the interrogation. And, damn it, it actually worked. The crowd quietened down, as if they all collectively fell under his spell, and listened.

"Sir, is it true that this boy is your son?" someone cried.

And suddenly, Harry was being shoved to the front, where Riddle's smouldering glare threatened to melt him into a puddle.

The next thing he knew, Riddle was by his side and ruffling his hair. Harry wondered if he was about to be slaughtered.

"Mr Riddle, do you know where this child's mother is?" another demanded.

Riddle chuckled. Only Harry, whose ear happened to be mere centimetres from Riddle's mouth, heard the forcefulness and the strain.

Fake. Everything charming about this young Voldemort was fake.

"My mum –"

Harry winced, cutting himself off in midsentence, as Riddle's nails plunged into his shoulder. He half thought it would draw blood, but it did not even pierce the fabric of the suit Ruth had made him dress in. Harry writhed, and the hand tightened.

No one saw.

Huh. So Riddle could be extremely discreet when he wanted.

"I have no idea," Riddle said lightly. "To be honest, I'm not even sure it happened."

Cries of outrage.

"Because you were drunk?" a daring individual asked.

"No," Riddle said. Irritation laced his voice. "Because I would have remembered."

"But you didn't because you were drunk."

More shouts.

Harry felt Riddle tense beside him as he struggled to keep the crowd under control. "I don't like being accused."

About twenty journalists hurried to note down the exchange, afraid to miss out on a single syllable.

"Do you think that he is your son?"

Cameras flashed and blinded Harry.

"Perhaps," Riddle said diplomatically. "I can't be certain, but rest assured that I will find out."

Harry could hear the veiled threat directed at him.

Then, Riddle tipped his head and hissed into his ear, making Harry stiffen, "You caused a scandal. You are not my son, and I want you to know that I will not let you tarnish my reputation. I'm only thirty, for Merlin's sake, and you claim to be fourteen. It is disgusting."

Harry could not help himself. "You mean _you_ are disgusting."

Riddle's eyes blazed. "I will deal with you when we get home."

He couldn't help the shudder that ran through him. All the same, he smirked. "So I _am_ going to live with you."


End file.
